I hit the pavement this morning at 5-fucking-in-the-am (ouch) and like always, the first few minutes felt stiff, awkward, disjointed. I was hobbling down the dark street, my way lit only by streetlamps and the moon, half-asleep and half-hungover, the 1/3 Tiger's Milk bar and glass of water sloshing noisily in my stomach and the dog trotting a long behind me and not moving much faster than I was.
But at about the first mile, I started to find my rhythm. Justin Timberlake started to convince me that I really WAS bringing sexy back even after copious amounts of homemade grilled pizza and beer consumed last night in honor of the husband's birthday. My legs started to feel warm and beads of sweat formed on my upper lip as my heart and breathing found a steady, comfortable beat.
Its at this point in the run, usually, is where my body begins to remember how to do this whole pacing thing. The music starts to motivate me and the run turns from torture into catharsis. My brain gets freed up from just making myself GO, and can move on to rehashing the day before, going over my to-do list, and daydreaming a little about future happenings.
So what did I daydream about today, in my woozy, still kinda beer-loopy state at approximately mile 4? Having another kid.
Yeah, I don't know either.